


Biting Down

by screaminghere, tiredly



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Background Relationships, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description of Corpses, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-09-18 05:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16988811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screaminghere/pseuds/screaminghere, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredly/pseuds/tiredly
Summary: It definitely used to be a girl, with long, greasy hair falling out of its molding scalp. Maybe at one point it had both of its eyes, but one is falling out now, and the other is fixed on Lance’s neck. He kicks it backwards, shooting it in the forehead, and goes back to the rest.





	1. Keith

**Author's Note:**

> playlist: https://m.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLAY3FOKu_nfxA5dyBs_GxoCXX9h0g9lyZ

An unwelcome gurgle reminds Keith that he hasn’t had a solid meal in around three days now, while the sound of metal scraping against concrete lets Keith know that the straps of his backpack have loosened yet again and that the top of his sword is slowly wearing down as it drags along the road. Keith’s hair sticks down against his sweaty neck under the unrelentless sun; he had been keeping it up in a ponytail, but his last hairband broke a few days ago. To top it off, he’s down to only two bottles of water. He almost doesn’t care enough to stop and re-adjust the straps of his backpack, but that sword is his only weapon and he misplaced its sharpener, so he takes a knee and shrugs off his worn-down Adidas bag and vaguely wonders if Kanye West is still alive while he tightens and ties the straps that are sure to come undone again. Keith keeps walking.

Sure to come undone. Maybe that’s a bit of a metaphor for the world these days. Everything is sure to come undone, to fall apart, to continue to get worse. Murphy’s Quantum law said that, right? If something bad can happen, it will. If something can come undone, it will. Just as sure as Keith’s hand-me-down backpack is to loosen again and again. Keith’s old Philosophy Professor would be proud of him what with all of his deep thinking. Too bad that Keith had told him to suck his dick and then stormed out of school, never to come back, just as Keith was always sure to do. Too bad that the Professor is probably dead now, too; Keith supposes that was sure to happen as well.

Keith hears his sword dragging across the ground again. He sighs, then he hears thunder strike and he wonders if it’s his fault for thinking that he’d be able to catch any kind of break in the middle of an apocalypse. To be fair, it had been a slow day, which is nice. Rural areas are always much calmer than more urban areas; there were less people, therefore there are less infected.

Keith makes for the closest shelter which happens to be a gas station, which is good, because gas stations are small and that means that there isn’t any obscure place for the infected to hide. The front glass doors are shattered, but that’s a common state for glass to be in these days. Keith spots packaged food on the store’s mostly barren shelves and prays to something or someone that he doesn’t believe in anymore that it isn’t a type of food that can expire. They’re baked goods, things like honeybuns and twinkies, and are very much expired. Just as Keith opens the first package the sky seems to open up as it pours down outside. Rain is good, the sound draws the infected outside and makes them lose their sense of direction for a little bit.

Keith makes it through two swiss rolls before he begins to feel sick to his stomach and decides to not push it with a third, but stuffs a couple of those along with stale honeybuns into his backpack because being nauseated is certainly better than starving. But there’s a thumping noise that causes one of said honeybuns to fly out of Keith’s hand and land with a scrunch behind him. Keith grabs for his sword and holds it at the ready as he approaches a door with chairs piled in front of it, maybe to keep something in or maybe to keep something out. Keith hopes that it’s to keep something out, hopes that it’s a barricade and that it’s keeping someone safe.

“Hello?” His voice is scratchy, which makes sense because he hasn’t been using it much lately.

There’s a muffled shout of something and then knocking, frantic pounding accompanied by what sounds like someone in absolute hysteria on the other side. Keith makes quick work in moving the chairs aside and swinging the doors open.

A woman stumbles away from him with a fearful gasp, then she smiles, as though Keith’s some type of savior. “Oh, thank God! Another person!” She looks torn between staying where she is and hugging Keith. Luckily, she chooses the former. Then the hysteria is back. “I need help, please.” 

“What’s wrong?”

“My son, he’s hurt, he has a fever, he needs water.”

Keith gets a bad feeling, a sinking feeling, a feeling of something sinking in his chest. “How is he hurt?”

“One of those things bit him.”

Keith turns to look at the pale-faced little kid sitting up against a wall, cheeks too red and breathing too labored. “Oh.”

“He needs water.” She’s forceful, daring him to object. “Do you have water?”

Keith looks back to his backpack, sitting in the aisle with scattered snack foods around it. Only one water bottle left.

“Yeah, I do. One sec.”

Keith gets his bag and hurries back, taking out the bottle and heading straight to the kid, who weakly looks up at him, eyes wide. His mother joins Keith, obviously worried. The kid’s eyes go from his mother to Keith.

“Who are you?” His voice is slurred, it reminds Keith of someone in a hangover, like he can’t think clearly, like there’s something distracting his consciousness.

“I’m Keith, what’s your name?”

“My name is Daniel, but everyone calls me Danny.” His small hand clutches at his arm, where blood drips down. It makes Keith’s already disturbed stomach toss and turn. 

“Nice to meet you, Danny. How do you feel?”

“I’m really cold.” Danny’s mother rubs his uninjured arm.

Keith presses the back of his hand to Danny’s forehead and it’s hotter than any fever he’s felt before. “That’s because you have a little fever, Danny.” Keith twists the cap off of the water bottle. “It would be good to drink some water right now.”

Danny nods. “Okay.”

Keith helps Danny in lifting the water bottle to his mouth and lets him take a few sips, then Danny nearly drops the bottle and Keith barely catches it.

“Sorry.”

His mother rushes to reassure him. “It’s okay, Danny, it’s not your fault.”

“I’m tired.”

Keith tries to keep his voice from shaking. “I know, Danny, but try to stay awake.” Keith takes a breath. “How about you tell me about yourself?”

“Like what?”

“Well, how old are you?”

Danny smiles a little bit. “I’m nine.” His smile muddles. “I think.”

“Nine? That’s pretty big, you’re almost all grown-up.”

Danny’s mother smiles a little at that, but she seems close to tears, seems to know the inevitable. “He’s a very responsible boy.”

Danny takes a breath like he’s going to say something, but instead turns to the side and vomits, to which his mother makes a distressed noise and moves to rub his back instead of his arm.

She looks at Keith. “Are there any towels here?”

Keith can hardly tear his eyes away from the shaking child, mouth dripping with bile and eyes clouded. “I… I’ll go check.

Keith runs to the bathroom, and surprisingly there are some of those brown paper towels left, the ones from public school that were too scratchy to fully dry your hands. Keith gathers around ten of them before he hears a scream and abandons it all together, sprinting back towards Danny and his mom.

Danny is latched onto his mother, his teeth buried deep in her shoulder before he rips his head away, tearing off skin with his bite. His mother is stuck there, in shock and still being held onto tightly with Danny’s little, inhumanely strong hands. 

Keith leaps for his sword but Danny, or what used to be Danny, doesn’t even acknowledge him over the screeching meal squirming under him. Keith yells and swings his sword clean through Danny’s head, turning away at the sound of flesh thudding wetly on the dirty, cracked ceramic tiles.

“No!” Danny’s mother screams the words, over and over. “No! No, no, no, no, no.” She scoops his body and destroyed head in her hands, desperately caressing his completely obliterated face, tears and snot dripping down her cheeks, blood gushing from the artery in the spot between her shoulder and neck.

Keith selfishly wishes that he hadn’t came to this gas station.

She bends over her child and weeps, repeating his name and slowly becoming less and less coherent as she does so. Eventually she quiets, but not because she’s calming down, because she’s lost too much blood and she’s passing out, dying. 

After the last of her sobs wrack through her body, Keith cleanly stabs through her skull, then he keels over and throws up because, fuck, he didn’t even know her name, and Danny was only nine years old, at least that’s how old he thought he was, because no one can keep track anymore. 

Murphy’s Quantum law; if something can go wrong, it will. Keith should’ve killed that kid as soon as he heard he was bitten. Keith looks at the blood on his blade and gags, dry-heaves until his stomach fatigues and his skin raises with goosebumps despite the afternoon heat. He checks their bodies after he gets himself under control. They don’t have anything; no food, no weapons, and no anything else. Maybe they were with someone else once.

Keith’s not sure how long he’s there, but he hears the rain stop, so he stands up and gets his backpack. There was more of the store left unexplored, and possibly more supplies, so Keith moves, keeps going; that’s all he can do. He finds some more stale bread foods, but that’s it; no water, which sucks especially now because the one that he had given to Danny had gotten knocked over in the chaos. There was a bit of water left but Keith doesn’t want to put whether it was infected or not up to chance.

There’s a rainbow outside, smiling across the sky like it’s a beautiful day, as if it has any right to be bright or remotely hopeful at a moment like this. Keith thinks that if there is a God, he has a fucked sense of humor. 

Keith doesn’t want to leave them there, Danny and his mother. It doesn’t feel right to let their bodies fester and rot, forgotten in the tiny office of a gas station manager, but he doesn’t have a shovel and even if he did he’s not sure that he has the strength to dig a grave.

Keith does what he always does, what he always has to do; he keeps walking. Keith listens to his sword drag against the ground.

-

The Rocky Mountains, that’s what’s in the distance on Keith’s left, he’s pretty sure, that or they’re some really big hills. They might be scenic in another situation, but as it is, his last water bottle was used on that kid leaving no water for Keith and he has a headache that threatens to take him down, black spots spread with every step, and there’s an unshakable ache in his muscles, so excuse him if he’s not really able to take in their natural beauty.

Maybe it’s a mirage, at this point Keith wouldn’t be surprised, but he sees smoke rising, through some trees up ahead, not enough to be a forest fire, just enough to be a campfire. That means there are people. People that probably have water. Keith picks up his speed, minds his step as he happens to be stumbling more and more often, which could be from both dehydration and the fact that he’s owned one pair of tennis shoes since tenth grade and they’re not faring well ever since he’s started having to use them daily.

Keith approaches the camp with caution, careful not to make any noise and risk alerting someone of his presence, but he can’t very well hear his footsteps over his heart pounding in his chest. He thinks of the last time that he met other people, which was very recent, and decides that he’ll take what he needs and go. It seems stocked, a shopping cart filled with several bags that are stuffed to the brim with bottled drinks and cans of food, which, to Keith, is a much more scenic view than the Rockies. The fire is sputtering, however most logs are still unburnt, like someone just lit it and then left it unattended. 

There’s no one there, at least no one that Keith can see or hear, and he deems that as good enough as he runs for the water bottle that he sees on top of one of a bag that’s covered in a pattern of cats and dogs. The bag looks like it belonged to a little kid, but Keith doesn’t have time to think about that. He stuffs the bottle in his bag and then moves to get a few more that are stashed there, but before he can he hears a voice start shouting.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

He spins around, pocket knife in hand, the one that his brother got him for his twelfth birthday.

“Drop the knife!” The man speaking looks young but he has a pistol aimed directly at Keith’s head and his hands are deadly steady, his face is focused. Keith drops the knife, wonders who this guy’s killed before.

There’s a bigger man on the right of the guy with the gun, but unlike his friend, his hands aren’t firm as he aims his gun, his finger isn’t resting on the trigger, he doesn’t have any intention of firing.

The first man yells out. “Pidge! Where are you?!” 

There’s no response for a few moments, then a girl comes hurrying out of the thick underbrush in the woods. “Here! What’s happen-“ She catches sight of Keith. “Who are you?”

“He’s a thief!”

Keith scowls. “I’m not a thief!”

“Oh, sure, just what a thief would say!”

Keith shakes his head in frustration. “I only need water, I don’t want anything else.”

The bigger man lowers his gun. “Lance, I don’t think he’s a threat.”

“He was stealing from us!” Lance squawks, still pointing his gun, but he doesn’t look like the killer he was a few seconds ago.

“He’s just as desperate as anyone else out here.”

A beat passes, but Lance sighs and gives Keith one last glare before lowering his weapon.

Pidge speaks up. “What’s your name?”

“Keith.”

Lance doesn’t seem to care about his name and instead of acknowledging it he turns to Pidge. “You were supposed to be tending the fire! Where were you?”

“I had to take a shit! It’s not my fault!”

Lance runs his hands down his face with a groan, smearing dirt into sweat and causing a streak of mud down his cheek.

Once the threat of danger has passed and there are no more guns aimed at his face, Keith feels a bit awkward. “So, uh, are you the leader here?”

The still unnamed guy snorts, but Lance looks confused. “The leader? Me?” He snaps up. “I mean, yeah! That’s me, haha. The leader!”

Pidge laughs, unabashed. “Oh, please. If anyone’s the leader here, it’s Hunk.”

The big guy, who must be Hunk, smiles at Pidge as she slinks over to him. “Aw, thanks.” 

Lance crosses his arms but he doesn’t look realistically mad, he’s obviously pretending to be offended for the joke. “Fine then, leader, what are we gonna do about mullet over here?” Lance gestures with at Keith with his thumb. Keith bristles a little, it’s not like he’s been able to go to a hair stylist recently.

Hunk shrugs then turns to look at Keith. “Are you a good sprinter?”

“Uh… I guess?”

“Great! Then you can go on runs with Lance.”

Keith short-circuits for a second. “What?”

“Hunk! I don’t need to be dragged down by him!”

Keith snaps out of his short-circuiting phase fairly quickly. “Hey! If anything I’d be dragged down by you!”

Lance scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right, I bet you couldn’t even carry supplies with those stick arms.”

“You’re one to talk!”

Lance gasps and Keith wonders how anyone puts up with him. “How dare you! Why don’t you come over here and arm wrestle me, tough guy!”

“Maybe I-” Keith’s cut off by a can hitting him in the chest and knocking the words right out of his mouth. It’s black-eyed-peas, Hunk threw it at him. 

“Stop shouting, you’re gonna attract zombies.” He throws another can to Lance. “It’s already decided. Lance, you know you need the help.” Lance opens his mouth to protest but Hunk puts out his hand in a stop motion and Lance’s jaw snaps shut. Maybe Hunk really is the leader here. “Last time you came back from a supply run, you nearly passed out. It wouldn’t hurt to have someone share the load.”

Lance grumbles something under his breath, but says, “Fine,” And shuffles away.

Keith considers bringing up the fact that he hasn’t even agreed to stay with them yet, and he definitely never agreed to help them gather supplies, but he just got the best food that he’s seen in months and he’s too afraid of that getting taken away to object right now. 

Black-eyed-peas. Keith’s brother would make those every New Year’s Eve, along with collard greens and ham, but the black-eyed-peas were his brother’s favorite; he had always said that black-eyed-peas would bring them good luck during the year. Keith wonders if he would actually have more luck if he ever ate them, wonders if maybe he would’ve just eaten the fucking beans and been lucky enough, he could still have his brother by his side. He had always hated the way they tasted, but right now he’d kill for a batch of those shitty, unsalted, and poorly seasoned boiled beans. Keith takes out his pocket knife and pries the top open, hopes that black-eyed-peas can bring luck to people even if it isn’t New Year’s Eve. Keith thinks of Danny, wonders whether or not he liked black-eyed-peas.

Pidge approaches where he’s now sitting with her own can of beans, still in front of the shopping cart, then, for some reason, sits down next to him.

“So, who are you looking for?”

“How do you know I’m looking for someone?”

“We’re all looking for someone. I’m looking for my parents and my brother, Hunk’s looking for his moms and his little siblings, and Lance-” Her expression drops, like she isn’t sure how to continue. “Well, he was looking for his family, but he… um… already found them.”

Keith looks over to where Lance is, sitting next to Hunk, struggling with a can opener, which is ridiculous, because can openers are simple and Lance appears to be using it correctly, he just can’t get the damn can to pop open. Keith looks closer; his hands are trembling, he can’t get the can opener to stay latched onto the can because his hands keep shaking it out of place. Eventually he dislodges the can so hard that it flies out of his hand. Lance curses and Keith watches as Hunk wordlessly takes the can and opens it for him. Lance almost looks ashamed as he mumbles thanks and takes the can back.

“Oh.”

Pidge looks at the ground “Yeah.”

For a few minutes, they eat in silence.

“How is he so…” Keith gestures with his hands, trying to remember the word that’s on the tip of his tongue.

“Uppity? Dramatic? Annoying?” Pidge offers wryly.

Keith finds the word he was looking for. “Lively?”

Pidge shrugs, then smiles, but it looks sad. “That’s who he is.”

Keith doesn't speak as he looks back to his can of beans.


	2. Lance

“Could you be any less noisy?” Keith growls, gripping his blade so tightly that his knuckles have started turning white. Lance pointedly shushes him, and goes back to the canned section. 

“I won’t take requests from someone who lived off of Little Debbie cookies up until all of a week ago.”

“It’s not a request, Lance, are you trying to get us eaten alive?” Lance clenches his jaw and continues to pull cans out from the shelves, scanning the labels and nutrition bars, huffing and setting them back down, and praying that this particular store hasn’t been completely raided. Given the obviously small population of this town, it by all means shouldn’t be empty yet. It’s only been, what, three months so far, since the wave? But if there isn’t anything good in here, if they can’t find food that’s actually worth the risk taken to run into town and get it…

Pidge isn’t ready to move camp again, and she won’t be for at least another few days. Finding a new town with new stores isn’t an option. 

Lance is focused, being as quiet as he possibly can while handling aluminum and glass. Keith, however, doesn’t seem to get it.

“Can-” he hisses “-you just-” he grabs onto the container nearest him “-pick some so we can go already?”

Lance looks at the can in his hand, reading the label as best he can with the small tremors in his fingers, and wrinkles his nose. Green beans: twenty calories per serving. No protein, no fats, and no worth. They would be burning three times that amount just by running out of the town. More, if they met up with any of the zombies. “No.”

“It’s. Just. Food.”

“Food that isn’t worth its weight. This is how we do things, mullet.” He grabs the can - maybe more forcefully than needed - and sets it down again. He then gets up in Keith’s face, whispering to the loudest of his abilities. “Each one of these cans costs time and energy. They make SOUND while I run back to camp. And I have limited bag space, so if you think I’m going to spend something that precious on fucking twenty calories, then I’m telling Hunk that your terrible hair is blocking any radio waves that might be headed for your brain, and I’m going on the next mission alone.” He, while trying to keep his voice levels intense but controlled, has now ended up a matter of inches from Keith’s face. Angry grey eyes burn into his own, and if looks could kill, then Lance might as well be stumbling across the town square with the rest of the zombies. 

“You’re insufferable.”

“And  _ you’re  _ pushing your luck. Now let me work.” He turns his head back to the shelf, and after scanning it to find nothing of worth, spins to the next section. The other two supply were like this, too, and there was no doubt in Lance’s mind that the next hundred would be the same. Canned fruits? Those are sugary, right? More caloric value than the other stuff. And they taste good. He thinks of how big Pidge’s smile would be, and after a second, shoves five cans of peaches into his bag. That’ll last them a while, right? 

“Finally,” he hears Keith mutter, and grits his teeth. Moves on, steps sideways to look at the next section. Pumpkin puree greets him, that and canned chickpeas. He grabs them eagerly - they were always a favorite, always in nice and heavily packed cans, with more protein that the group would usually score.

“Oh, sweet,” he whispers enthusiastically, pumping a fist in the air while using the other to grab the backpack. Sets them in.

“Anything else that we need, Princess?” Keith asks, venom dripping in his tone. Lance just smiles perkily, zipping up the backpack. 

“No-pe.” He pops his lips on the P, liking the way it feels to see Keith’s eyes roll frustratedly.

“Then can we finally leave?”

“Yeah. Just don’t let your bag make too much noise. I know the tuna packs are less noisy than the cans, but knowing…” he trails off, after seeing Keith’s eyes widen, and then he hears it, too. A thumping noise. Coming from the back room, that Lance had presumed to be locked, the key somewhere on some poor, dead retail worker’s neck. 

Only, it isn’t. Because something is in there, now. Lance feels unrestrained fear and adrenaline rush through him, turning his stomach inside and out, and his hand is on the gun at his belt before he can process it. 

“Keith, we’re leaving.”

Keith doesn’t look like Lance’s words had even reached his ears. His eyes aren’t scared, aren’t panicked, are barely even startled; they’re faraway, almost entranced, like he’s been taken somewhere else, reliving a memory (or maybe trying not to). He, as if unknowingly, takes a step forward. 

“Keith.” Lance’s voice is low, and quiet, but he can feel the terror creeping up in his throat, dread making his chest feel cold, and his pistol has somehow already made it into his hand (which should be shaking, it should be, but it isn’t, and he knows his instinct is right). “Keith, stop it now.”   


Keith doesn’t stop, and he takes another step toward the door, and Lance repeats himself again, but louder. And when Lance’s voice reaches a worrisome volume, Keith blinks, and looks back to Lance again, but his arm just keeps reaching - Lance doesn’t think he even realizes he’s extending it.

His hand turns the knob, and in seconds the door is swinging violently open and a small horde is stumbling out of the frame. Lance screams at Keith to run out of the way, but even as he does so, he’s switching his gun to his left hand and grabbing Keith by the shoulder with his right, jerking him backward. Keith falls into one of the shelves, and Lance doesn’t have time to even look to see if he’s okay, because one of the smaller ones that his bullet must have missed is right in front of him. 

It definitely used to be a girl, with long, greasy long hair falling out of it’s molding scalp. Maybe at one point it had both of its eyes, but one is falling out now, and the other is fixed on Lance’s neck. He kicks it backwards, shooting it in the forehead, and goes back to the rest.

They’re so quiet, not snarling or shrieking like normal, barely even grunting as they’re being taken down by bullets, and Lance realizes with a sinking feeling in his gut that they’d been in the storage room since the very moment he and Keith had stepped foot into the store. They had been silent the whole time. Listening, Lance thinks, and waiting. 

He kicks one in the knee that had been getting too close to his left side, and puts a shot into its skull. Blessedly - Lance has been firing so much that his chamber must be nearly empty - the horde is a small one, and the last live one goes down with a single bullet. He hears Keith groan, and rushes to his side immediately. 

“Oh man, oh man, oh man,” he whispers frantically to himself, but even then he breathes out in relief. Because, while Keith’s eyes are barely open, they’re moving. He’s breathing. And though Lance searches every inch of Keith’s exposed skin (there’s not much of it, thank fuck, maybe his leather jackets actually work as a little more than an iffy fashion statement) he can’t find a bite. Or even blood, really. Keith is clean, and Lance lets himself exhale. “Ha, you really are one stupid son of a bitch, huh?”

Keith’s eyes are open slightly, but it’s unsettling. He doesn’t make a sound. 

“Man, what the fuck. Say something, huh? A thank you, yeah? Any thanks would be nice.” 

Keith’s eyes open a little bit more, and his mouth moves a bit, but he seems to short of breath to be able to say what he wants to. Lance thinks that he might be trying to say his name.

“Hey. Quit it. You’re- you’re not even changing, man, there’s no bite. And that’s… that’s not how people act when they’re changing.” Lance frowns, jaw tightening. “Actually, if that’s your idea of a joke, I seriously might leave you here to die.” 

Keith is slowly coming to his senses, but he seems to be trying to point or motion to something. His hand jerks, and he almost hits Lance in the face with it. Lance dodges. 

“Dude, what is it?”

Keith is starting to sit up again, and Lance thinks that maybe he’ll be able to explain, but he doesn’t. 

“You’re fucking creepy, anyone told you that?” Lance tries to joke, to maybe get the annoyed reaction that his jabs usually bring. But the queasiness in his stomach starts to act up again, and he realizes - at the same time that he hears a thump not five feet behind him - that Keith’s not looking at him. Not pointing to him. 

He whips around again, and sees a big one, at least six feet tall, stumbling belatedly out of the storage room. Lance stands, or, tries to, but one of the cans that fell from the shelf somehow finds itself under his foot. He goes down, landing on his side and jolting so hard that he sees stars, and has no choice but watch the zombie step over its fallen companions on its way to him and Keith. 

It’s four feet away. He tries pushing himself up onto his knees, so he might crawl away. 

Three. Why the hell is his gun so far out of reach? He doesn’t remember dropping it.

Two. He can smell it, putrid and rotting.

And then a long blade is embedded in its neck, sliding in vertically and twisting as quick as lightning. The head falls off, and lands at Lance’s knees. Lance watches the body follow suit, and wonders if it had ever had a family. Kids, maybe.

Keith grabs his hand, his gun, and drags Lance out of the store without saying a word. 

The town is alive, now - more zombies than the ones at the store, and all shuffling toward the source of the gunshots. Keith pulls Lance out of sight, to the back of the building. Their scent was definitely veiled, considering the heaping mass of trash in the dumpster - obviously never taken care of after the virus broke out. Once Keith has checked to make sure they haven’t been followed, he nods to Lance and they sprint toward the town borders.

For the first time in a month, Lance has to stop in the middle of their run, but Keith seems to be expecting it. They take a break as soon as they breach the edge of the woods, and Lance doubles over, hands on his knees, feeling his shoulders and hands shaking uncontrollably, feeling as though he was seconds from vomiting. 

“Oh, shit. Lance. Hey, Lance, it’s okay now, just-” Lance punches him in the face.

Keith stumbles backward, mouth agape and eyes wide. “What the fuck, Lance?”

“You. Fucking. Idiot,” Lance seethes. “What in the hell were you thinking?” He tries to keep his fist tight, but it’s shaking so hard, so fast, and he thinks he’s definitely about to throw up the peanut butter sandwich he had for lunch.

“What was I thinking?” Keith shoots back. “I was thinking that you’d be one of the infected in a matter of hours if I didn’t help you, you cocky piece of shit! Besides, which one of us took on an entire fucking horde by himself?”

Lance rears. “Oh, as if you were in any position to be fighting.”

“You were on the floor, you- you weren’t even armed!” Keith yells, jabbing his pointer finger into Lance’s chest so hard it hurts.

“And you just had to save my ass, huh?” Lance huffs out a laugh. “Maybe you should have left me there. Taken your damn green beans and bolted.” 

Keith looks as if Lance has just slapped him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused,” Lance says icily, and turns on his heel. “We need to get back to camp. You’re so loud, the zombies probably heard it all.”

He takes off again, and hears Keith curse before doing the same. They run back to the camp, this time without any stops.

Pidge is happy to see them back, even happier at seeing the canned peaches (just like Lance knew she would be) but her smile dims when Lance just hums at her thanks and ruffles her hair. 

Keith stalks off into the tent, mumbling that he was going to sharpen his knife. Lance lets him, and pointedly ignores Hunk’s questioning eyes. But he offers to take the first shift that night, and while the other two are shocked, there’s no denying the relief in their eyes.

Almost directly after the sun sets, everyone decides, as they usually do, that there’s little point in staying up late. That, in these long summer nights, it was often best to get as much shut-eye as they could in the few hours of dark available to them.

It’s been a while since the last time anybody moved. Lance’s eyes feel heavy, but he knows sleeping will be useless anyway. He would probably take an unofficial second one too, because though Pidge wouldn’t ever say so, the night watches always weigh her down. She's only a kid, after all. And there wasn’t a way in hell that he’d be letting Keith out of his sight tonight. 

Lance isn’t an idiot. Nor is he optimistic. Which is how he knows for almost completely certain that Keith is going to try to slip away quietly tonight. Which he could, for all that it means to Lance, but envisioning Hunk’s sad eyes in the morning fills Lance with an anger unparalleled. So he sits, waits for Keith to inevitably stir. 

He watches the fire crackle, gripping his pistol tightly. Even though there aren’t usually many zombies in such a rural area - that’s why he and Hunk liked it so much, after all - there’s always a stray every once in a while. Especially when he and Keith had been so loud earlier. The night is no time to get distracted on normal days, but it was twice as damning after a day with too much commotion. He glances back to the tent, looking for any movement. There’s none. 

It must have been at least two hours since the others tucked in for the night. Pidge is snoring. Lance can hear it from all the way across the fire - it’s a good thing that she hadn’t been on her own for much longer than a week, or snoring so loudly without a guard would have eventually been fatal. 

When another half hour passes (at least that’s what his questionable but smoothly-functioning wristwatch is telling him), Lance starts wondering if he’s just grasping at straws. If he’s clinging onto any suspicion that he might have, because he has nothing more to work toward himself. 

That’s a lie. He has Hunk. He has Pidge. And there’s no way he’s ever going to give up on them and on saving their families. (Though he hasn’t proven to be of much worth in that department.)

A rustling comes from the tent area and Lance jolts up excitedly, the ugly trail of thoughts blessedly vanishing from his head. Someone had woken up, and it was too loud to be Pidge moving around in there. 

All of three seconds pass before Keith’s ruffled head emerges from the flap, eyes widening upon seeing Lance, very awake and very smug.

“Called it.”

Keith flushes, scowling defensively. “What are you doing awake so late?” 

“Could ask you the same thing, but I already know the answer.” Lance crosses his arms.

“You were waiting for me!” Keith accuses. 

“And you were deserting,” Lance fires back. “Good thing I volunteered for the first shift, huh?” 

“What the fuck, Lance, can’t you just let me go quietly?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Still a no.”

“You don’t even like me,” he groans. “You- you literally- Lance, you told me that you’d rather be dead than have me save you. Earlier today.” That bit jabs Lance in the chest a little, because yes, he did, in fact, say that. Once the adrenaline wears off, the stress of a mission after it happened has never yielded Lance’s best attitude - Pidge and Hunk are just better at avoiding him and his prickly moods. “So, why does it matter to you if I leave?”

“Oh, please, do you think I want to see Hunk all sad when he wakes up?” Lance asks. “Man, fuck you. He deserves to believe in people.” Keith looks guilty, to his credit, glancing back to the tent where Hunk is still sound asleep. “And I… well.” He lowers his gaze. “I’m sorry, okay? I wasn’t handling it well.”

Keith looks startled at Lance’s apology, like it was the last thing he expected. “Um? It’s- it’s fine, I guess? I-” he huffs. “Look, I just can’t stay here, alright?”

Lance’s eyes snap upward again. “And why not?”

“Because.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“Well I just used it as one!” Lance just crosses his arms, and looks at Keith with a brow raised. A second passes. Five. Keith grits his teeth. Ten. And then, Keith sighs. 

“I just… I don’t work well with others,” he says finally. He sounds genuine, and looks so tired. 

Lance rubs the back of his neck, and thinks about how to answer for a moment. “Listen, man. You might not like it, but the fact is that you need people. Especially here. Especially now.” He motions around him, at the woods, at the fire, at the tent. “This shitshow, it isn’t something you can go through on your own. And dude, no offense, but you weren’t really doing too well before finding us.” He pauses, hoping it doesn’t come across as condescending. “I mean, by the state of your hair at least.” That was a joke, and Lance isn’t sure if it hit its mark, but it seems to lighten the mood. Keith’s scowl fades, his shoulders drop, and he looks weary. Like maybe a fair bit has happened to him in the past few days. Like it’s all catching up to him, now that he’s not the only person around to let it. 

Lance worries that he might pass out, so he says, “Maybe we should sit,” and gently steers Keith to the seats by the fire. Keith obliges, slumping against him as they walk. Had he eaten anything for dinner? “Want some chickpeas?”

Keith waves his hand and shakes his head - that’s a no. Lance has to remember how little genuine nutrition Keith had been getting before they found him; his stomach probably needs time to adjust to that, which is fine, but he can’t help but think that some protein is undeniably what Keith would benefit from most right now (that, and maybe a therapist).

They reach the seats. They sit. Keith avoids Lance’s gaze, despite the already emotionally-charged air between them, as if a lack of eye contact could maybe dissolve the moment. 

“Being alone out here… it drives people crazy, dude.” Lance grimaces, remembering a man he seen on a supply run, so out of his mind that he had started talking to his wife’s dead hand. That man wasn’t easy to walk away from. For the next week, Lance had only been able to think about their matching wedding bands. “No matter how hard you try to convince yourself that maybe… that maybe you’ll be fine on your own, nobody really will be.”

“Maybe I’m the exception,” Keith says, but his eyes don’t look very into it. Lance gives a half smile, knowing that, at least for tonight, Keith is staying. 

“Maybe so, mullet man,” he says, nudging Keith with his elbow. Keith looks alarmed for a second, then his shoulders relax, and he smiles back. “But we’ve got one thing that you need more than anything else.”

“And what might that be?” 

“A hairbrush.” And when Keith shoves Lance - actually  _ shoves  _ him - off the log, they both laugh much louder than what’s safe at night.


	3. Shiro

“We have to move.”

The eyes; that’s probably what creeps him out the most. Or maybe it’s their skin, always peeling off and snagging on objects that they fumble into, along with bits of muscle and streaks of blood that Shiro can only describe as fermented. But their eyes, dead, lifeless, sometimes rotting out of their skulls or missing entirely and yet it’s like they can see his every move.

“There’s gonna be more soon.”

Shiro isn’t an angry person, wouldn’t consider himself irrational or impulsive, but this creature in front of him, Claire, the barista that knows Shiro’s order by heart, fills him with such a cold rage that he nearly kicks her disembodied head down the street. Shiro remembers seeing her when he took Keith to get a drink before his school and Shiro’s work started, how when Keith was younger she’d draw little cartoons on his cup of hot chocolate. She’d worked there for longer than Shiro can remember, being there ever since he moved into the town, and now her once beautifully brown eyes, one with a ruptured iris, the other with burst blood vessels, don’t look up at him. She’s completely still. This must’ve been her house, and now it belongs to the dozens of maggots writhing in her open sores and decaying flesh. Shiro swallows back the vomit rising in his throat and moves on.

“I’m coming.” Shiro falls into step with him, watching as their feet sync up.

“You knew her?” Matt looks ahead, not at Shiro, never at Shiro, like he’s scared of what he’ll see. He avoids mirrors, doesn't stick around to identify the infected, skitters away from his own shadow if it grows too dark. 

“Sort of.” Grande Americano, light cream, no sugar. “Not really.”

Matt nods. “We have to move.”

Shiro knows that, Matt’s already said that, and something about Matt pointing it out again makes him unjustifiably furious, but he stuffs it down. Matt doesn’t deserve an outburst, but Shiro wonders just how long he can keep his anger under his skin before it all comes pouring out and wipes them both out like the tidal wave that it’s sure to be. 

Shiro forces himself to look at the good side, which there isn’t much of, just those corny moments when Matt makes an awful joke and smiles as if the world isn’t in piece; seeing Keith again, because he remembers very well how upset Keith was that he was being left behind in a shelter, and maybe rightfully so, he’s an adult, but he’s still Shiro’s baby brother; reaching the shelter that Adam told him he was heading towards before they lost their cell service and all contact with each other, being able to hear his voice again.

Matt peeks out the front door, ever cautious even in this dead neighborhood where they haven’t seen any movement for days, but Matt still rushes out with his gun in hand. He gestures for Shiro to follow.

“We’re good.”

Shiro joins him outside, tugging along his worryingly light duffel bag. They cross the street to the next house.

“I hate doing this.”

Shiro almost laughs, which doesn’t bode well for his sense of humor, but of course Matt hates this, all of this, it’s not the most enjoyable thing.

“What specifically?”

“Raiding these people’s homes.” Matt stares at the ground with a grimace that rarely leaves his face. “I know we need food and water, I know we have to but, finding those families, braindead, roaming their old, fucked up houses, turning into monsters when they see us…” Matt takes in a deep breath and it fills his chest, Shiro can see his rib cage deflate when he lets it out. “It just sucks, man.”

Shiro puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder, stopping them both in their tracks. “We won’t have to do this forever. We’ll find Adam and then we’ll find a shelter. I promise.”

Matt mimics Shiro, putting his own hand on Shiro’s shoulder. He takes another deep breath. “I know. We will.”

Matt opens the front door slowly—which is unsurprisingly unlocked as most people don’t seem to care about keeping their belongings safe when they’re evacuating from flesh-eaters or running for their lives—with his gun once again pointed and ready, but again, there’s nothing. He nods to Shiro and Shiro walks inside as well.

The walls are covered in tearing wallpaper and dusty family portraits, some of a young girl, some of a teenage boy, then some of what Shiro assumes to be their mother and father. They look happy, carefree, or maybe it was only in the split second the photo was taken, but Shiro has a feeling that the big smiles on their faces in the frame have become much less common. He looks away from the picture.

This house is in much better shape than most others they’d seen. Like so many others, the family had probably gotten out in time, in such a rush that they had left their front door unlocked and their memories in their picture frames. And again like most others, they probably didn’t make it far. Shiro should be sad, or empathetic at least, but he doesn’t feel it, doesn’t feel anything. He’s had to kill families, children and adults alike, even a baby once turned on him, an infant of maybe two years toddling consciously toward him, with the strength of a person three times its size. He’d had to stab it with a knife. 

“You check downstairs, I’ll check upstairs.”

Matt nods at him in response, not looking him in the eyes but at a spot just behind him.

Shiro sets his foot down on the first step, which creaks, loudly. Dust forms little clouds around his feet before it settles back down. Each step seems louder than the last, yet the house is still unnervingly quiet, making that familiar feeling of adrenaline rush through Shiro.

Still, he nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees the body that’s laying on the top floor; unidentifiable and so skinny that it hurts to look at.

It’s not like it’s barricaded in somewhere, so it probably didn’t starve to death as a person. Shiro’s seen these cases before, where the infected die because of a lack of prey. It nearly gives him hope, almost as if the remaining healthy people were to just wait it out, all of the infected would die on their own, but they always seem to keep coming.

The smell is overwhelmingly awful and a few months earlier Shiro might’ve gagged, but he’s grown used to the decay, he knows he has to check the person’s body for anything useful despite how bad he just wants to turn away.

Flies buzz around Shiro’s face as he kneels down next to the body. He looks into its decaying eyes and wonders if the person it used to be had liked coffee, if they had known Claire, the barista.

There’s a flashlight in its hand, barely noticeable in the dim light but very much there, and very much useful. Shiro reaches for it, his own hand brushing against rancid fingers, nearly moldy, and he doesn’t react correctly when those fingers grab his hand and yank him closer. It happens so quickly that his mind feels frozen, paralyzed.

He reacts correctly, however, when his bicep feels like it’s been split open, like construction paper under the supervision of a scissor-happy child - that is, if reacting correctly means screaming an ugly sound ripped from his throat, stumbling backwards, pulling out his pistol, and shooting the fucker right between the eyes. 

His fate is set. He is going to die, but it’s okay, right? As long as Matt can keep going, as long as he finds Adam and gets back to Keith and keeps them safe, it’s okay. Still, he grips his arm tightly and feels his heart rate speed up in fear. What waits for him after death? It’s jarring, it’s unbelievable. He’s the survivor, he’s supposed to be tough, he’s lived through everything thrown his way. But this? How can he survive this? Shiro tries to breathe evenly. Does being shot hurt or would death be instant? How would he tell Matt? What would happen to Keith?

Matt comes crashing up the stairs and Shiro blesses the low light, because there’s no way Matt can see his open wound, about which the panic takes a backseat for a moment as Shiro’s now more focused on how pissed Matt looks.

“What the fuck did you do?!” He whisper-yells as if Shiro hadn’t just made a racket, as if they had any reason to be quiet anymore.

“I-,” Shiro shakes his head, becomes scarily aware of the advancing tremor in his hands. “I’m sorry.” “I thought it was dead but it wasn’t. I- I freaked out.”

Matt puts his head in his hands and groans. “Fuck,” he curses. “They’re gonna come from everywhere dude!” He paces in place for a few seconds and Shiro feels heat slowly spread down his arm and the fact that he’s infected hits him sharply. “We can’t run. We’ll just have to wait it out somewhere.”

“There’s an attic.” Shiro points to the ceiling with his good arm. “We can wait it out in there for a few days.” Shiro’s not sure about the ‘we’ part and he’s not a fan of Matt being the same room as him when he turns. He’ll talk to him once they’re up there, get him to put Shiro down before he becomes one of them. One of those mindless killers. A monster.

Matt nods. Shiro reaches for the ceiling and pulls down the ladder. They quickly scramble up and close it behind them.

Matt lays on his back on the old wooden-plank floor, which is even dustier than the other two stories combined. “This sucks dude. This is going to set us back for days.”

Shiro doesn’t respond. How could he?

Matt notices the silence.

“Shiro?”

He still doesn’t say anything, his heart feels like it might pound of his chest. He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t shout or freak out. Shiro is tired. “I’m bit.”

A pause. “What?”

Shiro looks him in the eyes. “I’m bit, Matt.”

Matt scowls. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.” 

Matt rolls his eyes. Shiro turns to expose his arm and that’s when it seems to hit Matt. He jolts backwards like he’s afraid he might get infected, too. “No, no, no, this isn’t happening.”

Shiro wants to say something, needs to say something, but no words come out. He opens his mouth, starts what may be the beginning of an apology but Matt cuts him off.

“Fucking shut up! Oh my God, this is not happening. I don’t fucking believe you.” His breathing gets faster. “Fuck, Shiro, how could you be so careless?!”

Shiro stays quiet as Matt kicks at the wall.

Then he turns back to Shiro, furious. “When did it happen?”

“Just now, when I shot the infected person. Before I-“

“God, shut up!” Matt pulls his hair and with each breath he makes an awful wheezing sound, like his lungs are fighting with each other. “This can’t be fucking happening. This isn’t fucking real. Oh fuck, Shiro, please tell me you’re joking.”

Shiro looks down. “I’m not joking.”

Matt yells, just screams into the still air and falls to his knees. “God-fucking-damn it, Shiro! We were supposed to be in this together!”

Shiro sinks down to the floor and moves closer to Matt. “I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to tell Adam, huh? What am I supposed to tell your fucking fiancé?” Matt’s body is shaking and he suddenly looks at Shiro, right in the eyes. “What do I tell Keith? Your brother? How can I tell him?” Matt shoves Shiro over and gets to his feet. “You’re such a fucking asshole, you can’t just die, you can’t just leave me alone!”

Shiro gets to his feet also.

“I mean, how selfish do you have to be? You’re just going to leave this hell behind to go off and die and guess who gets the pull the trigger on you so you don’t turn into one of those things, huh? Me! I do.” Matt spins around and tears and snot are streaming down his face. “I can’t do that.” He sounds a lot quieter now. He slides back to the ground. “I can’t do that Shiro, how could you make me do that?”

Shiro walks over to him.

“This is your last fucking chance I swear, you better be joking, this better be an awful joke that isn’t funny at all.” Matt chokes on a sob. “I can’t kill you, I can’t kill you. This can’t be real.” 

Shiro kneels down and wraps his arms around Matt, who embraces him tighter than he ever had before, hyperventilating into his shoulder and letting his tears fall and soak into Shiro’s filthy tank top.

There’s no other way. Shiro won’t stay here and attack Matt after he turns. He knows he has to die, and he knows that he’ll never be able to pull the trigger himself. He needs Matt to do it.

Matt pulls away. “I can’t do this, Shiro.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t kill you.”

“Matt-”

“No, what if you’re immune and you don’t turn?” Matt says quickly, breath caught in his throat. “It’s possible, isn’t it. I mean, what, we’ve already heard of some of those cases. You could be immune.”

“Those were rumors.”

“Maybe they’re true!”

Shiro just looks at Matt. Matt looks back, and he looks desperately. Then he seems to realize something. His face changes, turning even paler than before, and for a moment Shiro thinks he might vomit.

“What if… what if we cut it off?” Matt whispers the words like they’re cursed. They hang in the air like ghosts for a minute, then Shiro finds his voice.

“What?”

“Your arm. That’s what’s infected. What… what if we cut it off?”

Shiro knows that it probably won’t work. He knows that it’s a bad idea. But Matt looks like he might collapse in on himself if he actually has to kill Shiro. And, if Shiro is being honest, he’s afraid too. He’s afraid of dying, of the unknown, of leaving everybody behind.

Matt looks at him expectantly, waiting for an answer, eyes intense and unblinking, and it’s obvious that he won’t accept anything that isn’t a ‘yes.’

Shiro puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder and forces him to make eye contact. “Fine. But if I don’t make it, Matt… you have to be ready to put me down.”

Matt hesitates, but he nods.

Shiro lays down right where he is and holds out his infected arm.

“Okay. Do it.”

Matt freezes. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now. I don’t know how long this takes to spread.”

“I’m- okay. Okay, okay, lemme just, get my stuff.”

Matt shuffles around in his pack, pulling out several towels, a thread and needle, and of course, his axe.

The nausea that’s already hit Matt finally catches up to Shiro, and seeing the blade in Matt’s hands makes his stomach jolt.

Matt walks over slowly, far too slowly and it makes Shiro mad, just like so many things do these days. This was his idea. He’s the one who wouldn’t just put a fucking bullet in Shiro. The longer he lays here with his arm fully attached, the less a chance he has of surviving.

Matt holds the axe, hovering over Shiro’s arm.

“Just do it, Matt.”

Matt visibly swallows. “I know.” Yet he still hesitates. Shiro feels the heat spreading further down his arm.

“Matt, either swing that axe down on my arm or swing it down on my neck!” 

“I’m going to!”

“Then fucking do it!”

Matt swings it down hard. It probably didn’t make it all the way through Shiro’s arm, because Matt pulls it back up, but Shiro can’t really tell because his vision is going black and he can’t hear anything over the bloody screaming coming from the back of his throat.

Matt brings the axe down a second time and everything goes dark.


	4. Chapter 4

Adam wakes up in the early hours of the morning. This isn’t quite a rare occurrence, even before shit hit the fan, but he’ll be damned if it isn’t an annoying one. He checks his watch and groans quietly, lifting his head slightly only to knock the back of it against the lumpy cot in frustration. 

Adam isn’t an impatient person, not really, at least, not in his own mind. He hates waiting, yes - anyone who knows him could confirm it without batting an eye - but it isn’t a pushiness toward others that makes him snappish. 

It’s more of an anxiety. The feeling that creeps up in his throat when he’s at a standstill, the walls that always seem to close in on him when something is wrong but he can’t fix it fast enough, the frenzied nerves he manages to find in a slowly moving environment. That’s what makes him upset. 

And so, naturally, this shelter is the absolute worst place for him to be. Because of this, yes, and because he knows well enough the probability of the virus reaching the shelter’s borders as it has to so many others. Of it making its way inside, spreading into the systems of every person inside - last he’s heard it, the population of this building alone is a little over three hundred - until it made itself visible. Decay and ruin would be on them within minutes, and everyone would be none the wiser until the first bite is made. They’d be a school of fish, flopping around in a barrel, and then they’d be shot just as quickly.

Adam would know. He’s one of the fucks who helped create the bullets. 

Not on purpose, God, of course not - he would never knowingly have brought something so unstable, so sinister, so bloodthirsty, into the world. But he barely thinks that matters now, and he almost has to laugh, because he knows that if anybody in the building knew he would be torn to shreds even without the help of the infection altering their decisions.

Though he can’t deny, he isn’t entirely averse to the concept.

Because, truly, any death is better than that of an infected. That alone is the only knowledge stopping him from leaving immediately - the same thing that stopped him from leaving yesterday, last week, a month ago, even. Well, aside from Takashi. Adam knows that the running away will result in it taking longer to be found. The longer it takes for his fiancé to find him, the higher the chance that that he becomes infected, and the only thing stronger than Adam’s fear of becoming one of the infected is the fear of Takashi doing the same. 

It’s been the subject of terror for him ever since the outbreak happened. Adam isn’t even sure how many nights it’s been since then, but he knows that each of them he’s woken up in a cold sweat because of the image of him, eyes clouded, skin rotting and peeling off in grey chunks, teeth bloody and gnashing for food, for flesh and bone and blood, for  _ Adam _ -

No. Adam shakes his head forcefully. Takashi was strong. Takashi  _ is  _ strong. If anybody can survive out there, it has to be him. And Adam knows that when his mind is set, there’s nothing in the world that can move it from its course. It was one of the first parts of him that Adam fell in love with. It has to be the feature that keeps him alive. Because if it doesn’t, if it isn’t enough… well. Adam isn’t quite sure what he would do.

Funny, isn’t it - the absolute devastation that Adam’s own creation has wreaked upon him. This actually makes him laugh - a twisted, bitter, painful sound albeit, but a laugh nonetheless. Not a single part of it is actually funny, of course, definitely not to him, but it was such an awful thought that he finds it hard to do anything else but huddle in his blanket and croak. It haunts him, especially in this awful place, where he can do nothing but sit quietly and think about the world outside. It’s just his luck.

He feels his leg start bouncing, jittering, and wishes for what must be the thousandth time that there was anything to pass the time within this hell. It had used to be a Costco before it was turned into a shelter, hadn’t it? An odd concept, for sure, but he has to admit, it was a good choice. Food, water, and blankets are abundant and provided for the masses of  people seeking refuge, and the stony walls make for as much physical protection as anyone could hope for. 

The issue is, with everyone sitting in their small groups, sipping cups of soup and scooping out bites from rations of peanut butter, they aren’t quite interested in becoming attached to the place. Or the people. There’s precious little for any person to do if they’re on their own. And that’s exactly what Adam is right now - alone.

He misses Takashi. Painfully. He knows that he’s in the safest position he can be in - in this moment, at least - but his mind flashes to all of the names listed off on that old radio he had kept in his laboratory, the daily reports of bodies identified (not killed, just found one way or another), and he finds himself wondering whether or not Takashi Shirogane has been a name featured on the network since he had gotten himself cut off from it.

He knows the shelter has service, albeit a weak one, and information on the state of the world outside the grounds - they just won’t give it to the people inside. It’s almost dystopian. The stuff he used to read about in books as a child, feel chills running through his skin afterward, and then promptly close it and distract himself some other way. But distraction isn’t a ration provided here. 

God, he fucking hates this place. All of their high ceilings, their bare walls, their stone floor that seems to leech all the warmth from his weak and tired bones - he wants it all gone.

He is again reminded of Keith, the poor kid, who is stuck in the same kind of place, miles and miles away. It seems like a dry trick of karma that Adam had found himself stuck in a shelter just weeks after condemning Keith to one. 

Someone is crying, whimpering to themselves quietly in the dark. It seems like it’s coming from a bit away, but defined enough to be just down the row from his cot. Adam estimates it to be twenty feet away. Maybe even a bit less. 

That’s just another issue with the shelters, the way Adam sees it. All of the crying. Every given second of the day, there’s someone sniffling to be heard, whether it’s coming from thirty feet away or from some person in a spot right next to his own.

Adam doesn’t regard it in a bitter way, obviously not, for who could be that cruel, that self centered, that spiteful, in a place like this? In a time like this? Adam had experienced a fair few of these hysteric episodes himself in the first weeks. He had been endlessly grateful for everyone’s averted eyes, their pretended obliviousness to his fragile state, even those that wandered a bit farther away to give him a sense of privacy. Adam remembers it all. He hold no ill will toward the newcomers going through the same thing. Sometimes, even, he finds himself aching, wishing he could help them in some way, as naive as it might be.

That being said, the whole thing is pretty fucking depressing. As is the apocalypse, granted, but Adam selfishly can’t help but wince every time he hears someone reach their breaking point in the dark, frigid, gloom while the others pretend to sleep.

Perhaps it’s because he knows what can often come next.

There’s an unofficial rule here in the San Bernardino Shelter, and Adam suspects it may have been implemented, or at least practiced, in others as well - they’re all on some network, it seems. It is a rule that is unspoken and unacknowledged by each and every resident here, blatantly. Once one comes to the realization, it’s impossible to force out of the mouth.

Adam hates to think about it, he can’t bring himself to say it aloud, though he’s tried once before, and has heaved up quite a few rations after letting himself brood over it for too long. But it’s an unbearable, undeniable truth:  when he sees the blanket and possessions of someone near his cot being taken by the guards, their presence becoming so suffocatingly absent, that he knows where they went, and so does everyone else pointedly looking at the floor. 

It’s even worse when it’s a person who had been in a group. Their realizations and reactions vary, sometimes - children begging a stone-faced guard to say where their dad went, a wife who can’t bring herself to make them stop; two close friends become one subdued ghost of a person who understands immediately, who curses themself for not seeing it sooner, for not helping, who sometimes follows after their companion as soon as the very next day; sometimes it’s even a child, a kid as young as twelve years old seeing their escape and taking it, and Adam thinks those times might be the worst to notice of all.

It’s a horrible business, all of it. Adam’s stomach is churning now, even though it’s only 5 in the morning (only two hours until breakfast time), because the very worst part of it is that everyone understands it perfectly. Everyone knows that it’s the best course of action to take - supplies and space are limited, after all. There’s no good that comes from giving it away to people that have decided they've had enough. 

The decision is that of the victims, and it’s theirs alone. But it’s awful to see them making it. Maybe that’s selfish, too.

Often Adam thinks about Keith. How he screamed and swore, fighting, refusing to leave Shiro. He’s in a shelter now, too, and Adam still hasn’t stopped thinking about the furious tears streaming down his face as he begged not to be left behind. After so much time, Adam’s overwhelming guilt has only gotten worse - especially now, knowing fully the instability and paranoia that fills the head with every passing hour spent in these places.

But Adam isn’t only thinking about the way he and Keith left things, no matter how bad he might feel about it. More often, he worries about what’s happened in the time between then and now. Adam was no blind man, and he wasn’t naive. He had noticed things before. Keith’s dark wardrobe. His gritty music. His disinterest in making friends, in going outside, in taking care of himself.

How easy it would be for him, feeling abandoned, hopeless, to go to one of the Sacramento Shelter Guards? How easy would it be for him to slip a ration into their hand as payment, to say “I’m ready,” to be taken outside of the stone walls and into the sunlight for one last time before being shot in the back of his head?

Keith, with the face of a cherub and the mouth of a sailor, Adam’s little nuisance that he never quite minded. The stubborn kid so wildly different from Takashi, and so eerily similar at the same time. Keith is family. And Adam is haunted by - among other things - the thought of him, eyes wide and vacant, blood matting his hair, in a pile of bodies to be taken and quarantined.

Having chosen to do it to himself.

The world as everyone now understands it is a wicked thing, and Adam knows he helped make it that way. So if Keith dies at its hands, if Takashi does… well.

Adam knows that he would be at fault for it.

He’s doing it again - that awful thing in his head where, if left unoccupied, it starts to deteriorate. 

He should eat some food. He can practically hear Shiro telling him that, saying it with that fond lilt in his voice that happens when they’re together. When Adam’s working himself up over nothing, and Shiro reminds him that his anxiety meds aren’t going to work if his body isn’t. Then hands him an apple. 

Funny enough, though, it always seemed to make him feel a little bit better -  even though Adam was left wondering which of the two of them was the real doctor.

Food. Food is a good idea, Adam decides. His meds are gone, used up, but his stomach isn’t, and now he needs to feed it. He could eat early, then get his head straight. Maybe he could even start making a plan - start figuring out what to do if - no, not if,  _ when _ \- Shiro and Matt finally get to him.

He takes a second to quickly wipe his glasses on his shirt and setting them back on his face (he can’t wait to find himself a cleaning kit once all of this is over) before standing with a stretch and starting his walk down the row of cots. 

A new family is coming in, he notices, huddling into each other just at the entrance. There’s a woman, middle-aged, and and two children. No father was in sight. Adam looks away, hoping to give them some privacy as they speak to a guard nearby. 

His name is Grayson. Adam’s spoken to him before - only a few times, yes, but even that is exponentially more than he tried to interact with the others. Grayson, at least, makes an effort to hide his guns from view so as not to upset the smaller children when he passes out the food rations. Adam often sees him as the only guard to comfort the groups who have lost a member - one way or another - and as far as Adam knows, he’s never been the one with a finger on the trigger. 

Or maybe Adam is actually going crazy, creating and projecting virtue onto someone purely through anecdote. Maybe they’re all damned. He needs some cereal. 

“Adam,” Grayson says gruffly when he sees him walking closer. “You okay?”

“Just a rough sleep. That’s all,” Adam mumbles. Grayson nods.

“Coming to sign in for an early breakfast?”   
  
“Yeah,” Adam says, gratefully. Because, really, he  _ is _ grateful. He’s heard stories, whispers spreading around the shelter as quickly as the very illness they were seeking refuge from. Tales of the guards; the way their hands have been seen slipping into the rations and out just as quickly; the muttered slurs flung toward newer refugees that are too scared to do anything but train their eyes on the ground and take the hatred quietly; the “favors” they offer to exchange with some of the residents - be it men, women, even children for fuck’s sake, children as young as preteen… Adam is grateful to Grayson, not for any remarkable reason, but because he knows the others have not  been so humane.

Grayson hands him the breakfast sign-in sheet, the one that ensures nobody takes more than their allotted ration. As Adam signs in he notices exactly how bony his fingers, wrapped around the pen, have gotten. There haven’t been any mirrors around that he knows of, except for the cracked and dirty ones in the bathroom. He wonders if his face looks similar to his hands - are his eyes sunken? Is his skin pale? There hasn’t been any sunlight, not for months. Just a dim glow from the ceiling from the lights at half power.

“... a little out of it right now. Adam. Hey, man.” Adam snaps out of his thoughts, coming back into the present at the sound of Grayson’s voice. “Adam, dude, are you alright?”

His mouth twists into a bitter smile, he wants to laugh at that, but he knows that there’s nothing to be gained from being angry at the one person who’s trying to help him out, so he nods his head. “Yeah. I’m just... tired of it.”

“You and me both, buddy.” He gestures to the table behind him, stacked with non-perishable meals. “But this should help a bit.” Adam takes a packaged dry cereal cup and a bottle of water, leaning on the wall, feeling his stomach twisting. He doesn’t think it’s out of hunger.

That's when Grayson’s walkie-talkie beeps.

There are some moments in time that seem to happen in unbearably slow time, where the air is thick and weighty, and the need to get away from whatever is chasing is overwhelming. Where the impending outcome looms, unseen but felt, making the seconds beforehand torturous. Where Adam’s heart starts sinking before the tragedy has even struck.

It starts with something small.

The doctor flipping pages of notes, in the hospital’s pristine white halls, just before he gives Takashi’s diagnosis. 

The press of a remote button, just before the News comes to life with a chilling emergency warning.

The crackling of Takashi’s voice over the phone, just before the connection giving out, Adam only able to sob over his silent phone and beg him, please,  _ please, Takashi, stay safe, please don’t leave me, I’ll be at Bernardino, please- _

The walkie-talkie beeps. A voice crackles into the air.  _ There has been a 407 in Sacramento. I repeat, Altean Shelter of Sacramento has a 407. The virus has broken into the base. It’s been quarantined with guards, refugees, and infected inside. Cancel all deliveries and draftings to the location. Make no further contact. _

Adam’s stomach lurches. He can hear Keith begging not to be left behind as his vision starts to blur. Keith. Keith. Keith is in there. 

The last sight he sees is the ground rushing toward his face.


	5. Chapter 5

“Pst. Keith.” Lance has no idea what he’s doing right now. “Hey. Mullet. Hey, get up.” Keith doesn’t stir. “Keeeiiith.” Still nothing. “ _ Ave  _ _ María _ , Keith,” he groans. Another time, maybe he’d just let it go, but he doesn’t have that luxury now. He tugs on the blanket, and when Keith still doesn’t budge, he knows what he has to do.

Lance takes a moment to steel his nerves, make sure there’s nothing sharp next to Keith’s bedside, nothing that could be used as a weapon, anyway, and braces himself. He draws in a breath. And then blows it directly into Keith’s ear. 

Keith jerks awake, a knife appearing in his hand - it must have come from underneath his pillow. Lance releases a yelp, springing away and out of stabbing distance, as he swings wildly. A few seconds pass, his vision adjusts to the dark, and then he sees Lance. His eyes narrow.

“What the fuck, Lance?” he spits out, panting. Lance frantically shushes him, gesturing toward Hunk and Pidge who are somehow still fast asleep, and motions for Keith to follow him out of the tent. Scowling, Keith complies. 

 

As soon as they’ve passed through the open flaps, Lance turns around to look at Keith to see a scowl taking up half his face, arms crossed so tightly that Lance could see his muscles underneath the sleeves of his shirt. 

“What. In. The hell. Were you  _ thinking _ ?” Keith seethes, each word sounding more venomous than the last. “I could have slashed you like a tire.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “First of all, I wasn’t stupid. I looked for the knife. I just didn’t realize you take it into  _ bed  _ with you, like some kind of fetishist or something-”

“Lance-” Keith says as a word of warning. Lance pauses for a moment, not really meaning to have said that out loud, but also wondering briefly if he’d just accidentally hit a nail on the head. 

“You. Um.” He coughs. “You aren’t, right?” Keith glares daggers in his direction, which does nothing to ease Lance’s curiosity, but says nothing. “O-kay…”

Keith sighs in frustration, rubbing a hand over half of his face grumpily. “Is there a reason I’m awake right now?” 

“Oh. Right,” Lance says, snapped back to the present. “Yeah, I’m gonna need to do a night mission.”

“Haven’t you just about picked the whole store clean by now?”

“Yes, Mullet,” Lance says, slightly miffed that Keith had even considered otherwise. He’s  _ good  _ at what he does. “But this time it isn’t a grocery trip.”

He watches Keith’s face in the dark - the fire is long dead by now, only really used to keep Lance from falling asleep as he stays on guard, but as far as warmth goes, it’s springtime in the middle of California, and he’s fine without it. Keith nods slowly, like he doesn’t want to ask a question, like he’s somehow trying to find the answer before needing to. Lance decides to spare him the struggle and pulls his map out of his pocket.  

“This little fucker right here,” Lance points to a spot just beyond a river, “is a spot where a bunch of them group together at night. Pidge has been studying it for a few weeks.”

Keith turns to him. “And how does she get all of this information?”

“We’ve got trackers on the zombies that I shoot into non-vital parts of their bodies with this girl-” Lance grins and pulls his gun out of his back pocket, “-and every once in a while she gets a good eyewitness report.”

“From who? Who’s out here?” Keith seems to perk up.

“Nobody but us. That we know of, at least.”

“Then who’s crazy enough to go out at night to find them?” Lance just looks at him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, until Keith’s face drops. “...You.” 

“Bingo. And tonight we’re gonna see what’s attracting them. Grab your knife-” Lance pauses. “Your… knives? Are there multiple? How many - wait, dude, how many do you have? - never mind, get your knives, get your swords, get your grenades, whatever. S’long as they aren’t all underneath your pillow, then it’s none of my business.”

Keith scoffs. “None of what’s in my bed is your business, McClain.” Lance blinks, and so does Keith; obviously he didn’t mean to say that out loud. 

Lance feels himself start to shake, then hears a wheeze come from his chest. Keith’s face goes from mortified to disgruntled.

“What?” he asks defensively.

“What the hell, Mullet?” Lance says between chortles. “You’ve been funny all along and I’m only finding out about this a week after you get here?” Keith scowls. 

“Just tell me what you’ve found so far,” he says, grabbing his sword from the side of their tent and strapping it to his backpack.

“Alright, alright.” Lance takes a moment to wipe his smile away, and then straightens out the map again. “The river’s about twenty minutes away if we’re quick, thirty if we aren’t. Saving energy is the main priority here, though, so if you need to walk, tell me. It’s better to be slow getting in than being slow getting out. Got that?” He looks at Keith, who is nodding, and takes a moment to appreciate that Keith is genuinely listening. Less trouble for the both of them later on.

“What are we doing when we get there?”

“Absorbing information, mostly. Staying out of trouble.” Lance shrugs. “Pidge wasn’t too specific, because she doesn’t know what to look for. Before this, most of her shit was driven by blind curiosity. And, you know, it still is, but now it’s a bit more important, considering. You know? So whatever we can find out, she needs us to remember.” 

“Got it.” Keith frowns. “I think.”

Lance studies him, feeling appreciative (of what he wasn’t quite sure, though) before nodding.

“Well,” he shrugs. “That’s good enough for me.” He hoists his smaller backpack on his shoulders. Then he starts jogging, without warning, grinning to himself a bit as he hears the flustered noise Keith makes before starting after him.

“You’re such an ass,” Keith pants as he catches up. Lance snickers. 

“You out of breath already? We’ve barely even left camp, Mullet!”

“I could run circles around you,” Keith says back, rolling his eyes, but Lance can see his steps pick up, and knows that  he’s accepted the challenge. He rises to the occasion, picking up his feet just a little faster, breathing just a little heavier, enough to stay close to Keith - no, neck and neck with him - and he could see in Keith’s eyes that it was frustrating him. 

Lance likes this. 

He feels the first huff of laughter bubble out of him when he springs over a log and lands just a foot in front of Keith, who curses and sped up. They zip past the trees and bushes, flying through the leaves of any branch that happens to be in their way; Lance can tell that he’ll have a few scratches on his cheek the next time he looks in a mirror. 

They’re making a bit too much sound, and pushing their muscles a bit too heavily, but Lance is grinning from ear to ear and he can see Keith, just next to him, doing the same. 

Then he trips and falls, hearing himself gasp as the knee of his jeans tears open, his knee skidding harshly against a rock. Keith stops abruptly and rushes to his side.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and Lance can’t help but agree with him. Fuck. 

It isn’t an obscene injury - it looks deep, but Lance can’t even feel it, really - or a horrible amount of blood. There isn’t much, but it is undeniably  _ there _ , and it’s getting everywhere. Lance can smell it, oh dios, he can  _ smell  _ it, and if he can with his nose then he knows that the zombies can, too. Lance feels his stomach sink, slowly raising his head to look Keith in the eyes. “...Yeah.”

“Lance, it’ll be fine. I’ve got bandage rolls. If we wash it in the river, they won’t be able to smell-” Keith cuts himself off, shaking his head, before starting over. “What am I saying? We’re going to get back to camp, now.”

“No,” Lance says quietly. “I got myself into this, and Pidge is counting on us.” He clenches his jaw, sniffing in through his nose, and tries to straighten his leg.

“You’re in no position to be going that close to them-” Keith begins to say, and maybe he would be continuing, but Lance’s eye catches on something on the leaves, buried under the leaves behind Keith, and he’s no longer listening. It’s… pink. Bright pink. Lance stands, shushing Keith with a wave of his hand and a “shh”, walking slowly toward the thing in the leaves. He reaches out, seeing his hands start to shake again, toward the small patch of color among the green and brown. 

He feels his fingers brush against fabric, small and soft, and closes his hand around it. 

It’s wet.

His hand emerges holding a ragdoll in a rosy dress, stained red. A button eye has fallen off.

Keith looks at it, too, and Lance can see anger burning beneath his eyes.

Lance hears Marco’s laugh in his ear. “I’m not going back to camp.”

Keith doesn’t object this time, instead holding a hand out to help Lance up. Lance looks at it. Places his own shaking one in Keith’s, and stands. 

“We should get to that river,” Keith says. Lance nods. They start running again, and this time, neither of them are laughing. 

When they do reach it, which isn’t a long time in between, Lance immediately scoops up a handful of water and gets on one knee. He snaps a hand at Keith and holds his palm facing up as he uses the other one to scrub at the bloody cut. Keith understands, after a second, and gingerly gives him the bandage strips. Then he stands back, and says nothing, and draws his sword - Lance hears the metal blade sliding out of its holder. 

His hands are shaking. He’s trying to clean out the blood, but fuck, it doesn’t stop bleeding, and Lance can feel in his chest that he’s running out of time. They would be here soon. They’ve probably already smelled him. He had just killed himself, and Keith, and by virtue Pidge and Hunk. His hands don’t stop shaking. 

“Let me help you,” Keith says, voice gravelly, and Lance can hear the fear in his voice. The concern. 

Lance isn’t going to have that. “No.”

“You’re hurt,” Keith says, a bit more forcefully. 

“And who’s fault is that?” Lance mutters. “I’ll clean it. I’ll bandage it. Just make sure nothing comes out and kills you.”

“Lance, you can’t expect me not to help when your hands are-” Keith starts talking, but Lance stands and turns to him, pulling his gun out and loading it without hesitation, without a hitch. 

“What?” He spits, daring Keith to finish the sentence. “My hands are what?” Keith glares at him, and doesn’t talk. Doesn’t move. The air between them is static, silent, and that’s why they’re both able to hear the snapping of twigs in the woods just behind Keith. 

A zombie walks out, missing part of its jaw, so it seems, and lunges at Keith. 

Lance watches as Keith cuts the head off in a single slice. It falls to the ground with a miserable slap. Lance bites the inside of his mouth and closes his eyes - that one was a woman, an old one. Could have been his Abuela, even, if he didn’t already know for certain that it wasn’t. 

He hears Keith walking up to him, kneeling, taking a scoop of water and rubbing his leg. Lance winces, but doesn’t move. Keith rips off a strip of the bandages, a long one, and wraps it around the injury five times. 

His fingers are rough, and Lacne flinches when they squeeze the cloth around his knee, but they touch gently, and Lance feels the care, the genuinity, in it. He hangs his head, his chest aching from shame. He had gotten them into this. Keith had only been trying to help. 

“Thank you,” he whispers once Keith stands again, and hopes that it comes through - he hopes Keith understands. 

“Yeah.”

“I’m-” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Keith smiles. It’s small, and it looks like he doesn’t mean to at all. But he does. Lance thinks he looks better with it on his face. He wants to say so, but can’t bring himself to the edge.

“I’m gonna put some mud on the bandage,” he mutters instead, looking downward and stepping back. “So the smell gets covered up a little more.”

Keith steps away too. “Good idea. I’ll stand guard.”

Lance walked down to where the water met the dirt, just downstream, and squatted. He grabbed a handful of the mud, mushing it up for a second, waiting until it was soft enough to drip between his fingers before rubbing it against the bandage and his jeans. He had learned this from Hunk, who’d had to trek across an infested town to find water (and, subsequently, to find Lance camping next to it). 

Lance washes his hands in the water, inspecting his handiwork. It looks… alright. Gross, but not bloody. And it smells like shit, which agaitates his nose to no end but, in the end, is exactly what he was trying to do. 

“Done,” he calls to Keith, who doesn’t respond. Lance feels his stomach go cold, and turns his head around slowly. 

Keith is standing, back to him, facing a zombie about twice his size. It’s not making any noise, not even breathing with a rasp. Unmoving. Just staring at Lance, directly at Lance, without so much as a twitch of a muscle. Keith stands in its way, sword drawn, just as still. 

Lance draws his gun, clicking a bullet into the chamber, waiting for somebody to move. Waiting for somebody to breathe. 

And it does move, but not toward them. It seems to choose the other direction, deciding that of two prizes, Lance and Keith aren’t the grand prize. 

They hold their breath as it retreats, stumbling westward along the river. The two of them don’t move until it’s turned a corner and they can’t see it anymore, then Lance walks quickly to Keith’s side. 

“Do we follow it?” He whispers.

“What?”

“It’s going in the direction that we were heading. Do we follow it or not?”

“Why are you asking me?” 

Lance turns to face Keith. “I dragged you out of bed to do this. Now you’re a part of it, too. And that means that if I fuck up, we both die.” Keith doesn’t take his eyes away. “So I need to know if you’re willing.”

Keith huffs, in a grim way. “You won’t fuck it up.” 

He starts walking in the direction that the zombie had left, and leaving Lance to follow. Lance takes a moment, then does exactly that.

They keep a safe distance, almost a quarter mile behind it, not a word exchanged between them. It’s only one zombie, and one that neither of them would have an awfully hard time taking out - were they on their own, with a different goal - but this is their best chance at finding their destination. If they don’t find it now, then they’d have to wait to do it another time, and that’s a luxury that they’re never guaranteed. So they step lightly, breathe minimally, and communicate with their hands and eyes or not at all.

Lance is taken aback to notice himself thinking about how good of a team they are. Nonverbal signs from each other are all it takes to give updates, to give orders. They work with and around each other, and they survive. Keith is quick, serious, and impulsive, but not stupid about it - a perfect counterpart. He never seems to doubts his aim, his arm doesn’t falter holding his sword. Keith is deadly, and Lance likes that. Because so is he. 

There’s no light for miles, not since the power companies went down across California, and all they’re using is the light of the full moon. Which is why Lance almost misses it when the zombie takes a left - a hard one. It’s almost a planned turn, but Lance knows that it isn’t, because that’s impossible. They’re mindless. It’s part of their defining features. He throws his arm in front of Keith to stop him, but he knows without looking that they’ve both seen it happen. 

Quietly they break into a run, and Lance tries his best to step on the rocks only, so they make less sound. Keith is less careful, Lance notes, but seems to be keeping the volume low. He’s got a skill for being quiet, evidently, and has scared the shit out of Pidge because of it. Lance can’t tell if he feels jealousy or admiration over it. He seems to harbor both, recently.

Oh, to have a car. Lance was saving up for one before all of this. Just about to graduate, ready to move on and apply for the Garrison, follow his dreams since childhood - all that shit. At the moment, it didn’t matter. He just wanted a set of wheels so he wouldn’t have to run fucking everywhere. 

They skid to a stop upon the clearing that it had turned onto, and Lance can immediately see why it did. 

“Mother of God,” Keith whispers, and Lance can’t help but agree. 

Because there among the trees, or lack thereof, are what must be forty or fifty zombies crowded around a single point. All of them are preoccupied with… something - it’s right at the fucking center of them - and not sparing the two living, breathing, nourishing human beings less than five hundred feet from them so much as a glance. No matter how uninterested they are, though, Lance feels his stomach writhing like a coiled snake, and he grabs onto Keith with a grip so tight that he knows he must be hurting him.

Because they’re there, drooling and squelching and some of them groaning horribly, bumping into and falling over each other like animals, like ants surrounding a dropped potato chip. Beastly, overcome, terrifying. Lance has to swallow the bile in his throat and pull Keith from their exposed spot by the river. 

Keith’s eyes ask why they’re getting closer. Lance points to the tree just a few feet away, motions to the large branch spreading directly over the action. Then mimics climbing motions. Keith nods, and immediately kneels to give Lance a knee up. 

The zombies are making enough noise to cover up the grunts Lance isn't quite able to stifle as he pulls himself up - there are more than one steps to take, because the branch he’s trying to reach is at a fair height, and his damn leg is doing him no favors. It might not have hurt before, but it sure as fuck does now. But Lance was one of five children - or, at least, he had been. He grits his teeth and locks his jaw, muscles straining as he lifted himself up again. 

He hasn’t been alone long enough to forget how to climb a damn tree. 

He can hear Keith below him, though he’s a lot less noisy in his climbing. Of course he is. When Lance reaches the top, he slides on his stomach further out to make room. Keith joins him shortly.

“What are we  _ doing _ ?” He hisses as soon as his face is close to Lance’s ear.

Lance holds a finger to his lips, then points to the center of the crowd. Motions to his eyes. Then again back to the center. 

“Oh,” Keith breathes. Lance nods, and starts scooting out. The branch, thank fuck, is strong enough to hold them both, but it sways still, and Lance grips it tighter with trembling hands. 

Looks back to make sure that Keith is with him. He is. They’re close enough to feel the other breathing, and silent enough to pass for dead. And now, just above the writhing, snapping mess, Lance is able to get a look at what had brought them.

It’s a light. A small, red light flashing every second, sitting atop something pristinely white. It looks about the size of a thermos, really, and the same cylindrical shape. Lance glances to Keith, then back down to the horde. 

The making of it looks familiar to him, though he can’t put his finger on it - something about the precise indented lines in the side and the almost painful white color makes his head spin. He knows this design. He  _ knows  _ it. 

Keith inhales sharply as the thing emits a sharp, dense gust of smoke, sending the zombies to go into a frenzy. One nearest the machine snarls and sinks its teeth into the skull of a smaller one next to it. A boy - a small one. Lance’s jaw tightens. 

“What’s the smoke about?” Keith mutters. Lance whips his head around, a finger to his lips, but Keith rolls his eyes. “They can’t hear us over how loud they are. And it’s because of the smoke. Why’s that?”

Lance shrugs, forcing himself to look back down at them. The small one is still alive, but now it’s bleeding from the scalp. Lance focuses on the contraption instead, not able to keep looking.

It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any fucking sense, but Lance knows he’s missing something. 

“What’s that on the side?” Keith says quietly in Lance’s ear. 

Lance leans his head, squinting, until he sees it too. Numbers, flashing in the same shade as the red light atop the machine, counting down. 20:18:45… 44… 43…  

And then it all clicks into place. “ _ Dios mío _ ,” Lance chokes. He draws in a breath, scrambling backwards and pushing Keith until they’re no longer able to see it among the thrashing, decaying bodies clamoring around it. 

“Lance, what?”

“Fucking go, Keith!” 

As soon as they hit the ground, Lance starts running. He feels his breath hitching, his pulse pounding in his ears. Keith follows him, and Lance isn’t sure if they’re being quiet anymore or not - he can’t hear anything over his own heartbeat - but he knows for damn certain that nothing is close to catching up any time soon.

Finally Keith pulls him over. “Lance, what’s wrong?” He says, grabbing Lance by the shoulders and not letting go. It’s not necessary, though, because Lance feels his knees start to give way, and suddenly he can’t even try to pull away. His throat aches, burns from the sprinting, and his head is feeling light. Keith tightens his grip. “What. Happened?”   


“Keith,” Lance rasps. “Keith, it’s a bomb.”


End file.
